“Don’t turn around.”
Not the usual glare shift or auto-brightness adjustment. This was a deep, rolling shudder, like a sheet being snapped over a mattress. The image of his desktop dissolved, replaced by a photograph. It was his desk. Exactly his desk—the chipped coffee mug, the tangled charging cable, the sticky note that read “Buy milk.” But the photo was taken from a different angle. Higher. As if someone had been standing behind his chair. laptop screen shot button
The timestamp read: 9:42 PM. Today.
Alex’s heart kicked against his ribs. He looked behind him. Empty room. Locked door. “Don’t turn around
Another flicker. Another photograph. This time, the view was from his window—outside, looking in. He could see himself in the image, hunched over the laptop, face pale. But the photo was dated: Tomorrow, 9:41 PM. It was his desk
Under the photo, a line of text appeared, typed letter by letter in real time:
He never pressed the screenshot button again. But sometimes, late at night, he swears he hears the faint click of a shutter from somewhere behind him.
